RENEE DRUMMOND-BROWN - POEMS

Author Reneé Drummond-Brown is a renowned author residing in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She holds a Master of Arts degree in creative writing with a concentration in poetry from Chatham University. She also holds a Bachelor of Science degree in Christian Ministry Leadership with a minor in biblical theology studies, graduating summa cum laude from Geneva College of Western Pennsylvania. In addition, she received an Associate of Arts degree in Christian Ministry at The Center for Urban Biblical Ministry (CUBM), where she served as class president and graduated in the top 5% of her class. She is still in pursuit of excellence towards her mark for higher education.
 
While at CUBM, her writing career blossomed into Reneé’s Poems with Wings are Words in Flight, a phrase that eloquently coins her work. The dominant themes of her writings are spiritually based. She has been led to write about blacks’ history, The Civil Rights Movement, slavery, family, and the African American woman who at times is taken for granted. Drummond-Brown’s poems with wings metaphorically points to this scripture “And he sent forth a raven, which went forth to and fro, until the waters were dried up from off the earth” Genesis 8:7 (KJV).
 
Drummond-Brown has published several poems, one of which was written for the Original Freedom Singer of The Civil Rights Movement, the legendary Ms. Rutha Mae Harris. The poem was published by Judith Hampton-Thompson, of The Metro Gazette Publishing Company, Inc., Albany Georgia. Drummond-Brown is the author of several poetry books to date, and her work can be seen across the globe in various anthologies, programs and magazines. Her poetry and essays have placed in several contests. She has received accolades each year since she started writing in 2013. Because her work is viewed on a global scale this solidifies her as a force to be reckoned with-in the literary world of poetry. Drummond-Brown is inspired by none other than Dr. Maya Angelou, and because of her, Drummond-Brown posits “Still I write, I write, and I’ll write!”

AIN’T NO TIPTOE THROUGH THE TULIPS!
​

​I walk tall and carry a bic pen.
I walk hard.
I walk proud.
 
I walk for them boyz
who can’t breathe no mo.
 
I WALK LOUD!
I WALK MAD (AS HELL)!!
CAUSE I GOTTA BLACK SON!!!
 
 
Dedicated to: Do you gots soft shoes on? Now dats what I’m talkin bout…WALK HARD!
 
 
A RocDeeRay Production

PRAISE BREAK (cause ‘dats what we do)
​

​Us Colored-gals gone show
our assets off
cause we’re valuable and remarkable (as hell-always have been).
After-all, everyone knowZ (including satan),
we’re planted here first.
Tell the truth and shame the devil.
Amen; Amen.
AL 288-1.
 
Queen Dinkinesh,
we know who you are.
SURPRISE! Always did (shhh, Momma told us not to ev’r tell-anyone).
Ain’t nobody foolin-us.
You Sustah-Gal, jUSt like us, are marvelous.
Let-em-let-dat-sink-in.
 
They can strip everythAng from us:
Our men.
Our sons.
Our daughters.
Our songZ.
Our tears.
Our heart.
Our virginity.
Our milk.
Our braids.
Our inventions.
Our thAngs.
Our piece-of-mind.
Our love.
Our old soft shoe(s).
Ev’n dat 40 acres,
‘anna talkin biblical mule too…
 
But hold-up, wait a minute…
Definitely not our spirit.
Nor our sanctified-soulZ.
Dat belong to ‘our’ God (though).
Who, I might add, IZ
awesome.
Plus, He gots,
ALLL-DIS-MESS
under His control.
(Amen; Amen).
 
When the world does us in
and we simply can’t take-it
no-mo. We get ugly as hell.
Yes! UGLY as hell
and turn to ‘Da
Anointed Holy-Ghost!
And get our Pentecostal-style
praise break on!
Sumthin; sumthin
sum know nothin bout
(Amen; Amen):
 
We cry.
We pray.
We testify.
We squeal.
We scream.
We howl.
We snort.
We snot.
We wail.
We inhale; we exhale.
We grunt.
We growl.
We walk them church hardwood floors (mop ‘em too).
We run.
We jump.
We dance.
We sAng.
We chant.
We moan.
We groan.
We praise.
We break.
We tarry.
We lament.
 
We holla!
We holla!
We holla!
Sweatin profusely (deodorant been worn off, so what)!
 
Yeah, we ev’n speak in
‘dem Mother-tongues’.
So none-other
understands (His Masterful plan).
‘Cept, them interpreters of God.
 
WE SIMPLY LOSE ALL CONTROL OF OURSELVES.
 
BET.
 
Holy stockings on (so-what).
Corn-crusted feet shown (so-what).
Flipping our church-hat, eyelashes, wig and weave off (so what).
Lose our knock-off Louis Vuitton, kidz, teeth and gentle-tongues’ (so-what).
Exuberant shouting, and dancing, like David-danced out our,
made-in-China synthetic clothes (so what).
Fallin face-down on the-ground (so-what).
Eyes rollin in da back of our nappy headZ;
lookin like a chicken ‘wit our heads cut off (so what).
Holly torn slip-slipping-off, and hanging-down (so-what).
Preacher-man, husbandman, kidZ, family, and friends,
ain’t no-where to be found (so-what).
 
We give God our ALLLLLLL,
plus the honor, glory, praise, our plight-ed blueZ, and 10% too.
 
CAUSE GENUINE UGLY PRAISE
‘IZ WHAT COLORED-GALS, ARE BORN TO DO.
 
 
Dedicated to: Get your ugly on like we do (After-all, He gave up The-Ghost).
 
Authors note* I thank God for them ole saints who taught us sumthin; sumthin bout praise.
 
 
A RocDeeRay Production

The Wild, Wild West

​

​My pen’s
bad
as can be.
 
Shoots no blanks.
 
Cogitates
the ink
she thINKS.
 
Shoots
2
to the head.
1
to the chest;
 
no questions asked
no prisoner’s
exempt.
 
You guessed ‘WRITE’;
the thINKing pens’
‘sho-nuff blessed.
 
Writing’s my game,
creativity’s my ‘thAng.
Poetry’s my signature name
an’ ‘YES’
trait!
 
Come at me
‘betta come correct
at best;
cause when I ‘DRAW’
my gun,
I INK
LIKE I’M IN
THE WILD-WILD-WEST! 
 
And you’ll take two to the head
one to the chest;
my INKpen slays
like a head hunter
at its best!
 
 
Dedicated to: Duel fights take two and my INKpen will annihilate you! Get out the way!


A B.A.D. Poem

What Cha Workin Wit?
​

​400 looooooong years
in the rear.
 
We certainly ain’t no come from behind race.
 
No status. No man. No education. No sons. No jobs.
(Nothin).
 
But God ain’t give us the spirit of fear.
He gave us His POWER,
and of a sound mind, and His love.
 
And ‘when’ they ask
“What cha workin wit?”
 
Tell ‘em,
We’ze workin wit faith
of a mustard seed.
 
AND IT IS THAT VERY BELIEF
growing us slowly
but surely, in goodness, in mercy, in love and His grace.
 
Keep all them
toys, we’ze don’t need your (so-called) thAngs.
They all belong to Him any-ole-way.
 
 
Dedicated to:
When He gets through ‘wit us; we’ll be 24kt gold (like He promised). Believe dat!
 
 
A RocDeeRay Production

Still I Write
(The Answer to: Dr. Maya Angelou’s “Still I Rise”)
​

Maya,
Of course, they wrote you down
in history. You proved them wrong
in truth. But you planted for me calligraphy,
so,
I’m heard on paper
all the way to God’s celestial
roof!
 
My passion for writing does
upset them. But I can’t be concerned.
Cause you left for me a gift from God,
and it’ll be writing that
I’ll forever yearn.
 
Just like God’s Raven leaving the Ark. She flew to and fro.
Until the waters were dried up from off
the earth. Because of you. I’ll forever write
in the skies,
seas
and dirt;
this for certain
I do know.
 
I was
that broken soul.
And bowed
so low to Satan’s pit. With nowhere to get;
but up,
I allowed my pen
to place me within God’s Script (ure).
 
I know my writings excite you.
And with God for you, who can be
against us, in giving me that nod.
I finally hear
your words loud and clear.
The poems you left behind are messages
of truths,
minus
the facades.
 
Some have shot my writings to pieces. While others
have damaged me over time. But God; sends
a ram in a bush,
ink,
a quill,
and wrote for me
Ecclesiastes 3.
He Author’s the time and place with limited seasons for their
hurtful rhymes.
 
From the shame
you told me to write.
I write.
From the pain
you told me to write.
I write.
I am that Raven Blackbird with a large wingspan
“Renee’s Poems with Wings are Words in Flight,”
flying all over God’s land.
 
I too want to leave behind my unhealthy fears.
So, in the dark,
I write.
But in the light, I see the imagery
our ancestors gave to you;
which you passed onto me.
 
 
Maya,
you are the dream, Barack Obama was the hope
and I
am the slave set free (to write).
Still I write.
I write.
I’ll write.
 
Dedicated To:  A Tribute to Dr. Maya Angelou
 
A B.A.D. poem
 

The Sky Is Falling
​

​Chicken Little.
Chick-fil-A.
Chicken broth.
Chicken feed.
Cock-A-Doodle-Do.
Chicken powder.
Chicken Licken.
Count your chickens.
Chicken egg-roll.
Chicken in a basket.
No spring chicken.
Chicken hearted.
McChicken.
Baked chicken.
Roasted chicken.
Fried chicken.
Grilled-chicken.
Chicken McNuggets.
Chickens with they heads cut off.
Chick-O-Sticks.
The cock crows thrice.
Chicken n Gravy.
Chicken with rice.
Chicken wings.
Chic on the side.
Chicken Noodle soup.
Boneless chicken.
Chickens have (finally) come home to roost.
Funky chicken.
Chicken and dumplings.
Chicken Fettuccine.
Chicken fried rice.
Chicken Alfredo.
Chicken pot pie.
 
Mother hen.
Rare as a hen’s teeth.
 
 
Dr. Snooze,
Which came first, the chicken, the egg, or, COVID-19?
 
Or,
is it this; that; or the third?
 
One fish.
Two fish.
Green bats.
Blue labs.
 
Red liars+
Black tested cats+
Brown guinea pigs=
lab rats.
 
 
Dedicated to: Disaster is imminent (peeps wake up)!
 
 
B.A.D., I thank you my brilliant Queen for your genius, the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, plus all the lessons. I miss you.
 
 
A RocDeeRay Production

I Got My Own Scars
​

Betrayed.
Stolen from their hut.
Sold out by their own.
Chain linked. Captivity. Beaten by
boisterous waves across a battered angry sea.
Locked into AND out-of a keyless door of no
return. With the hope of absolutely NO possibilities.
Beaten down by a lady of liberty. Fenced into a mesh
of complex quandaries geared to torturous chaotic
norms. Herded as livestock. Pressed with a flat
iron. Branded on palms, shoulders, cheeks and tired
buttocks. Porn. Porn. Sick porn. A cattle’s brand.
Made in the U.S.A. Wearing Virginia’s Sunday
best. NOTHING but the dawg in em. Auction block
shopped. BUY-ONE GET-ONE FREE. Food
for thought. Broken, belittled beaten bruised
brainwashed BEFORE the bidding starts. Grab N
go auctions (fast food). “Sold to the highest bidder,”
 dragged onto plantations. Sportin chains. 2-chainz.
Re-cycled again, broken, belittled beaten bruised and
brainwashed. mere kings’ turned into broke studs
for those field-hen wench Queens. I’ll save the rapes’
for another poem on another rainy-day. Broke-back
blue-black now looks like a road map on his back
displaying geographical information navigating political
boundaries and labels. Spiritually dead! Dead is as dead
does. This don’t resemble the same man STOLEN from
the hut. MASKED. But he’s “ours” and imma luv on
him anyhow (with my own mask on). I got my own
scars. Refrain, broken, belittled beaten bruised and
brainwashed. The trees don’t even stand tall. That
strange fruit made the branches rise then fall. The
trees even gave up on us. Someone had a dream.
No more kings and Queens to swang. The oxygen
separates from the blood to the brain. No more blue-black
kings to swang. Cotton comes to Harlem and to hoods.
Cloud 9; floatin fine. Pipe to penal. The new improved
Mandinka-warriors crips N bloods, wear GPS road
maps with holes down their blue-black backs. With
matching ankle (iron) jewelry. Swagin tags on their
crusted toes and everyone of em read: nobody-john doe.
Cause we don’t know em no more. Just like the X-man
said. Roost chickens. Motherland. This don’t resemble
the same man stolen from the hut. But they’ze
“ours” and imma luv on him anyhow.
I gots my own scars.
 
                                                                                          “I gots’ yo back” (me).
 
 
Dedicated to: WEST SIIIDE!!!
 
A RocDeeRay Production
​

Ain’t Got Nothin’ But Pride
​

​Stolen from
my Mother land.
Boats sailed me to the Indian land
Bible ‘say’ze’ it’s da’ Promised land.
 
I question why? Why ‘you’ze’ hate me so?
Ain’t got nothin’ but pride.
Heads held on high
Chin to ‘da’ sky
Don’t think I’m better than.
 
Ain’t got nothin’ but pride. And I walk witta’ strut.
Swayin’ deze’ big boned hips.
Pep in my step…cornbread, collards N’ hamhocks’ to blame
for ALL OF DIS’.
 
Arrogance claims my face.
Uppity-ness is what it is.
I can’t escape pure grace.
I’z come from
diamonds, salt an’ gold.
Iron, cobalt, copper, silver of old.
Petroleum, cocoa beans, wood
and Ohhh’…tropical fruits that ONE cannot hide!
 
Ain’t Got ‘Nothin’ but Pride.
Don’t hate me cause I’z smiles from “YOUR” sea to shining seas.
This’ lands y‘OUR’ land??? No dog in dis’ fight!
 
Ain’t Got ‘Nothin’ but Pride.
I’z come from Kings and Ethiopian Queens.
Remember Sheba??? Solomon’s love, SURELY can’t hide (t)his’
‘BLAAACK’
sustah’s pride.
He loved her waaaaaaay back then and STILL dotes’ on her again. AND…
throughout my created plight…
 
Ain’t Got Nothin’ But Pride.
 
THATS’ WHY…
My heads’
held
on high!!!
 
 
Dedicated to: Sistah’s walkin’ tall and carrying a big stick.
 
 
A B.A.D. RocDeeRay Production
 
 
 

What’s A Stud to Do?
​

​What’s a stud to do?
 
“YOU,”
taught ‘em to be
free loading Freddie’s.
Shuffling their feet,
sailing/selling them to the Land of The Free, to produce
more slave-men and wench-hened’ breeds.
 
And now,
“YOU,” can’t understand
why they don’t get off the sheets;
‘pullin up their own boot-straps man,
and onto their “LAZY” feet!...
 
What’s a stud to do?
 
“YOU,”
taught ‘em bout jail. Remember good ‘ole Virginia, 1619;
them 2-chains up ‘N ‘runnin
on their necks, hands, mind and feet?
 
And now,
“YOU,”
can’t understand why they’re still jobless in 2019.
Maybe their “RECORDS” hold the key?
I don’t know. (Limited education).
“YOU,” tell me?
 
What’s a stud to do?
 
“YOU,”
taught ‘em their profession was/IS a slave.
Labor for no pay.
 
And now,
“YOU,”
can’t understand why they sleep-in and leech
on “THE” system all day.
 
What’s a stud to do?
 
“YOU,”
taught ‘em not to feel a thang.
And now, for the life of “YOU,”
can’t understand why they walk ‘round
dejected, neglected and rejected;
showing no ‘kinda love…like some hard-core thugs…
 
REMEMBER: crips and bloods;
touting “YOUR,” dope, chains and guns
(they’ve no-ships, planes nor trains to ‘brang “THAT” junk into the hood)!...
 
What’s a stud to do?
 
“YOU,”
taught ‘em how to be beat.
And can’t understand why hurt people hurt innocent
people on “YOUR,” clean, paved, magnificent
(blood on your hands) city stained streets...
 
What’s a stud to do?
 
“YOU,”
taught ‘em how to dress for less;
holes in their shoes, cut up shirts, trousers
too small, with undergarments shown…And now, “YOU,” can’t understand
why they bust a sag “WHEN/IF” “YOU,” decide
to let-em’ in & out of-jail man…
 
What’s a stud to do?
 
“YOU,”
taught ‘em bout that-dope!
Remember those experimental drugs; helping them to cope?
Just Google medical experimentation on slaves
and you’ll come up with a “boat-load” of links…fo sho!
LIKE…Cotton “CAME” to Harlem.
And don’t act like, “YOU,”
don’t know?...
 
What’s a stud to do?
 
“YOU,”
taught ‘em to separate from family, friends and foe.
And now, can’t understand why they drop their litter
from woman to woman…home to home,
no shows, and get ghost…as they, seductively roam, to ‘N fro;
leaving behind an’ Ark of blackened birds,
to fend, in “yOUR,” madness all alone…
 
America “YOU,” taught this man
in “YOUR,” systematic scheme of things
how to master “YOUR,” designed plan.
And now, they’ve perfected “YOUR,” professional game;
to the best of their god given abilities and talents they bring.
And now, “YOU,” no longer ‘wanna play.
What a shame?...
 
Well, pat “YOURSELVES,” on the back
cause “YOUR,” studs have designer hardened-hearts.
And yes, they got it like that! 2 snaps!!
And whether “YOU,” like it or not “YOU’RE,” in this game!
Now that’s what’s up…
 
What’s a stud to do?
 
I guess all these thangs “YOU,” taught ‘em ‘IZ
some real FAKE NEWS too.
Stay tuned@11:00!
And let “YOUR,” news do what it do?
 
 
Dedicated to: Fake News at 11:00 PM., Stay tuned!
 
A RocDeeRay Production